


Trust and Brussels Sprouts

by convolutedConcussion



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Dolls Can Cook, F/M, He Also Has An Apartment, Look At These Nerds Kinda Communicate, Porn with Feelings, Slight Plot if You Squint, Who knew?, blink and you miss it though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 07:43:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7038973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a colander next to the sink and she dumps them into it.  “Brussels sprouts?” she questions, brow arching even though her back is to him.  “What have I ever done to you?”</p>
<p>“Have you ever <i>had</i> them?” he demands pointedly.</p>
<p>She doesn’t answer because the answer is no.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust and Brussels Sprouts

It’s late when they finally get out, lot lit by a single light.  The crisp air somehow makes the sky clearer and Wynonna stops, lets her head tilt back.  She’s not usually so prone to thoughts like this but… it’s a really nice night.  The sight is kind of lovely.

Speaking of lovely sights.

“You wanna grab dinner?” she asks Dolls suddenly.  Not really even hungry, she just knows Wave and Nicole will be disgustingly cute on the couch again tonight.  She’s not really sure she’s prepared to deal with that reality right now.

Apparently, having Dolls staring at her like she’s growing another head is more tolerable.

“Sure,” he drawls eventually, eyebrows quirking ever so slightly.  “Is anyone even open this late?”

Oh.

She watches as his eyes lower and he offers a small, private smile and her heart does a weird flip at that.  “Come on, I’ll cook,” he says, nodding towards the SUV.

Curling up in the front seat, she narrows her eyes at him.  “What do you mean, ‘I’ll cook’?”

He holds his finger in front of his lips.  Exaggeratedly, she rolls her eyes.  She watches the road but can’t keep her gaze from darting over to him.  It’s not his usual blank stare, he doesn’t look stoically frozen.  She wonders absently when he started looking so… relaxed.  In the station, even at rest—and she is sort of grossed out that she notices this—he’s sharp, alert, all hard edges and bunched muscles.

The thing about Purgatory is that it only has like two apartment complexes.  He pulls into a little community of duplexes and triplexes, and parks in front of a duplex near the back.

Immediately, Wynonna feels her whole worldview tilt.

“Wait,” she whispers, following him up to the door.  “You’re staying in an apartment?”

Shooting her a quick look, he pushes the door open and gestures for her to follow.  In the moments before she’s able to actually see what it looks like, she expects something Spartan.  She expects a studio with a bed that pulls out of the wall, a bare table with a single chair.  No TV, one pillow, a kitchenette, _maybe_ a desk.  But he flips the switch and the room is bright and—and warm.  There’s a big, comfortable-looking couch with a messy throw across it, a coffee table with books and files scattered across it, an entertainment center.  The walls have generic, but nice, art hanging from them.  It’s small, but it looks lived-in.

“It came furnished,” he explains.  “Where did you think I went at night?”

“I—just tried not to think about it,” she jokes lamely, voice tinted with awe.  His shoulder knocks against hers and she snorts.  “So, you’re cooking—what’s on the menu?”

“Chicken, veggies, rice,” he shrugs.  “Do you trust me?”

Tipping her head to the side, she gives him a lopsided smile.  “Not even a little bit,” she teases.  “Are you trying to trick me in to eating healthy food?”

He just winks.

Her eyes drop for a split second to his lips and she _knows_ he sees because swipes his tongue out quickly—a flush rises up her cheeks and she looks away.  She feels suddenly naked, not in a sexy way, but bare and vulnerable.  Like she just told a secret.

“Don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing,” she says, putting distance between them to flop across the couch, trying to get herself back on even footing.  “You’re trying—you’re trying to _infect_ me with healthy eating habits.”

“Caught me,” he relents.

Under her nervous fingers, the throw feels soft.  Idly, she slides her hand over it, watching out of the corner of her eye as he grabs a remote off the entertainment center.  The TV comes on and the remote lands next to her.  She starts flipping through the channels as he disappears into the kitchen.  She stops once she comes across a promisingly dull-looking Lifetime movie and kicks her boots off, shrugs out of her jacket.  Standing, she takes her boots to drop them next do the door, hangs her jacket on a hook next to the door.  She eyes the couch but somehow ends up slouching against the walkway into the kitchen.

Dolls has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and he’s wielding a big knife to chop an onion.

“Do you need help?” Wynonna asks uncertainly.

His whole body freezes, just for a moment, and he looks her up and down, pauses just a moment on her mismatched socks, before loosening and jabbing the knife at a bag of Brussels sprouts.  “Rinse those?”

There’s a colander next to the sink and she dumps them into it.  “Brussels sprouts?” she questions, brow arching even though her back is to him.  “What have I ever done to you?”

“Have you ever _had_ them?” he demands pointedly.

She doesn’t answer because the answer is no.

A hand lands low on her back as he leans past her to run the knife under the running water.  “Just trust me,” he murmurs, suddenly very close to her ear.

When he pulls away, she lets out a pent-up breath.  “Sure,” she says.  “Where do I put these?” she holds the dripping colander over the sink.  He gestures silently at a bowl lined with paper towels.

Their arms slide against each other when she tosses them in.  He’s roughly chopping some kind of greens.  She’s a little mesmerized by his movements.

“What next?” she asks, embarrassed by her breathless tone.

He doesn’t look up to answer, “There’s cauliflower in the fridge.  Take off the leaves and rinse that too.”

Head bobbing mostly to herself, she follows his instructions.  She has to search a little for the garbage, but by the time she’s done he’s ready to take the cauliflower from her.

She doesn’t have a chance to ask for anything else to do because he sighs with a gentle smile.  “Wynonna, go sit.  I got this.”

Lips twisting, she goes back into the living room and curls up into one corner of the couch.  The movie doesn’t really hold her interest and she ends up more focused on the sounds coming from the kitchen.  He’s silent, the only thing evidencing his work is the sound of a knife hitting a cutting board, the sizzle of something in a pan, the chirp of the oven.  Soon, though, it starts to really smell like something _awesome_ is being made—garlicy and spicy and something a little sweet.

By the time he brings her a plate, she’s starving.  The sprouts are halved and roasted with florets of cauliflower, a small pile of mixed rice and greens, and the chicken is covered in a sauce that smells amazing and tastes almost like curry.  Purely out of form, she eyes him suspiciously when he sits on the other side of the couch before trying a bite of the Brussels sprouts.

She’s surprised by how good it is—it’s tender and dense with a hint of spice, just a bite of bitterness.  “Wow,” is all she can think to say.

“See?” he gloats.

“Shut up,” she snipes without heat.  “I hate you, this is so good.”

He doesn’t say anything, but when she looks over he’s looking entirely too smug.  She scoots closer so she can elbow him.  They eat in silence, and she may eat a little more quickly than she’ll ever admit.  When his plate is clean, she takes it from him and goes to the kitchen.

“Leave it,” he calls from the other room.  She rinses them before setting them down and hovers between the door and couch.  “Come sit for a while,” he offers, face unreadable.

She hates when he does that.

Chewing her lip, she takes back her seat next to him in the center of the couch and draws up one knee.  They aren’t touching but she can feel his body heat like a brand.  She stares ahead at the TV without really seeing anything that’s going on.  It would be so easy, she thinks, to let herself fall against him.  Shaking her head, she pushes that thought back, drops back against the cushion.

His eyes are on her when she finally does bring herself to glance over.  It’s a Moment—or it could be, she thinks, if she knew what to do with herself.  Now, though, she has no idea.  She’s on strange territory.  A mirror of their initial interaction on getting into the apartment, his gaze drops quickly—here and gone—to her lips, and _that_ at least puts her on familiar ground.  She closes the space between them to brush a kiss to his lips, quick and testing.  She can feel his sharp breath, the moment he presses back just a little.  His hand comes up to cup her face, and she steadies herself with a hand on his shoulder, but they don’t touch anywhere else.

There’s no telling how long they spend like this, the easy slide of their lips together, the way their mouths slot _just so_ , and there’s something full under her ribcage growing that _scares_ her.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he whispers into the kiss, thumb swiping her cheekbone.

“The hell we shouldn’t,” she answers, vehement.  Then, so softly she almost doubts he can hear, “I want this.”

But her eyes are open and she knows he hears her because she can see it across his face.

He pulls back just a fraction of an inch.  “Wynonna,” he says simply.  “I could be gone at any time.  They could pull me out.”  There’s something he’s not saying, and she tips her head to press their foreheads together.

“I could die,” she responds, squeezing her eyes shut.  “Tomorrow, or the next day.  I’m not really planning that far out.”

When she sits back, there’s a naked pain in his eyes that she recognizes.  She takes a shaky breath as he tucks her hair behind her ear.  She doesn’t know how to say what she’s asking for.

Neither of them are great at feelings, apparently.

His fingers skim over her jaw, then over her lips and she sucks in a quick breath.  Quickly, his hand slips behind her hair and hooks around the back of her neck to pull her back in.  Between fast, hard kisses, he mumbles, “I don’t want to _hurt_ you.”

It’s a shocking moment of sincerity and the thing in her cracks open, filling her with warmth.

“Whatever _this_ is,” she tells him suddenly, gesturing between their chests, “I don’t know how to do it.”

“Neither do I!” he laughs.

“Good,” she huffs, throwing one leg over his lap to straddle him.  “Good.”

She dips her head down to pepper his lips with fleeting, teasing kisses, pulls just out of reach just as he starts to deepen them, smiles against him.  She draws a low groan out of him and chuckles at it, but then she’s on her back and she gasps.  His fingers thread through her hair and she lets him tug her head back, whines when he drags his teeth over her throat.  Her fingers dig into his back through his thick sweater and she may say something— _more_ or _harder_ or _please_ —but every point drives a shock through her.  She stings where his stubble rubs her skin.

Her fingers hook into the hem of his sweater and tugs up, and he sits up to practically rip it over his head, slides her top up her belly to grasp at her over her bra and drags a quiet keen from her lips.  He swallows the noise, slips his tongue against hers as her legs lock around his hips.

Then her phone rings shrilly, making them both jump.

She gives him a nervous sort of giggle as she fishes for her phone, sees the name flash across the screen.

“It’s Wave,” she explains, apologetic.  “I should really…”

Snorting, he retreats to sit against the opposite end of the couch.

“Hey,” she answers, letting one foot drag over Dolls’ thigh as she eyes him hungrily.

“Wynonna!  Where are you—are you okay?” her sister asks, sounding anxious.

Suddenly, she feels awful.  She’d forgotten what time it was.  “I’m sorry,” she says immediately.  “I’m fine, I’m with—with Dolls.”  She watches idly as he strips her socks off her feet and tosses them over his shoulder.

“You’re not at the station.”

“We—wait, why do you know that?” she demands, suddenly distracted by fingertips tracing over the arch of her foot.

There’s a pause.  “Nicole’s working graveyard,” Waverly responds at length.

She kicks, drags a toe down the middle of his belly.  “Um, yeah, we’re fine,” she mumbles, too fixated to really formulate a response.  “We got hungry.”

“I— _oh_ , Wyn, did I—are you two—“

Dolls catches her ankle before her toe gets below the button of his jeans and she smiles as innocently as she can.  “Wave, don’t worry about us—me, but I gotta go,” she rushes.

“Yeah—no, go, I’ll—I guess I’ll see you in the morning?” her sister stammers.

“Uh-huh,” Wynonna replies, “Love you.”

She doesn’t even wait for an answer before hanging up and dropping her phone onto the coffee table. She gets up onto her knees and climbs onto Dolls, yanking her top over her head and dropping that, too.

“You’re _bad_ ,” she teases, kissing him hard and open-mouthed.

He hums and it is the most _delicious_ sound.  They break away and she swipes her thumb over his spit-slick lips, grinning when he sighs, “Do you wanna see the bedroom?”

“Yeah, I do,” she answers.

She hops off of him, follows on slightly wobbly legs down the short hall with two doors on either side.  He points on the right and says, “Bathroom.”

“Gotcha,” she replies breathlessly.

They push their way into the bedroom and it’s as warmly furnished as the rest of the apartment, but she doesn’t stop to investigate further, too eager to have his body back against hers.  Fingers hooked in his belt loops, she tugs him forward until their chests are barely touching, eyes on his.  She can feel his hands drag up her hips, her waist, her ribs, and stop short.  She cranes up to nip at his lower lip, nudges a sweet kiss into the point.

“Take off your jeans,” he orders, taking his hands away.

She’s more than happy to comply, fixed on how he watches her slide her jeans down her hips and kicks them off.  Not really her most graceful moment, but his gaze is hot and she feels a flush creep over every inch of her.  Her own fingers then start on his button and zipper as he reaches around her to unclasp her bra.  It all feels very slow, and it’s never been this unhurried before.

Guiding him by pushing his shoulders, she maneuvers him backward onto the bed.  He drops, stares up at her for a moment before pulling her into the space between his knees, presses his lips just above her bellybutton.  He catches a nipple between his teeth and she hisses, head dropping back.  He teases until her gentle, choked breaths turn into loud, wanton moans, nails gripping into his shoulders and hips rolling against nothing.  With a _pop_ , he pulls off to suck a trail of bruises across to her other breast and she’s desperate with it when he bites a little too hard.

_“God,”_ she whimpers when he drops another closed-lipped kiss to her stomach.  “Fuck.”

“Still think I’m bad?” he asks, nuzzling just under her breastbone.

“So, so, _so_ bad,” she whines.  A little rough, his hands trace down her sides, grab her ass, pull her knees hard enough that she ends up sprawled on top of him.  “The _worst_ ,” she hisses, propping herself up with hands on either side of his head.  She rocks her hips, agonizingly slow, rolling over his hardon.  That earns her a soft groan.  “I’m not unwilling to reevaluate my assessment, though,” she whispers, not stopping.

“You’re too generous,” he growls, flipping her onto her back and grasping at both of her hands.  “Maybe if I just…”  He bites at her jaw, under her ear, down her throat.  He’s got her pinned too thoroughly for her to move and she _needs_.

“You’re good,” she gasps, toes pointing when he sucks her sensitive flesh.  “Please, you’re so good.”

He eases up, grin sharp and hot.  “That’s what I thought.”

As he stands, he pulls her panties with him, lets them fall to the floor.  He slides his boxers down, dick bobbing up against his belly, and she wants him so bad she’s throbbing with it.  He digs in the nightstand drawer, eyes intent on her as she pushes herself further up on the bed, drags her hands over her breasts, her stomach.  She lets out an impatient whine as he rolls on a condom.

Soon, he’s back on top of her.  He gives her a rough, open kiss before pulling back, searching her face.

“Please,” she whispers.

She moans, loud, when he presses into her.  His hips move slowly, eyes locked on hers, every thrust a jolt of pleasure.  It’s not too long before he picks up the pace, pushing into her hard and fast and relentless until she can barely breathe with it, pressure building in her gut.  She lets out a litany of curses, punctuating every shove with a plea— _don’t stop, please, there, yes_ —his own moans feeding her frenzy.

Her climax hits her like a bus and she sees white, crying out and feeling distantly that she’s scratching into his sides with her nails, gripping him with her thighs as she shakes through it, almost missing when he drives over the edge into her with a shattering groan.  He stays suspended over her as her fingers slip over his sweaty ribs before flopping next to her.

“Holy _shit_ ,” she whines shrilly, breath coming in hard and heavy.  He grunts something like an agreement that she can’t even bring herself to address.  She feels like she should move but every part of her is spent.

After several minutes, she’s recovered enough and chilled enough with cooled sweat to roll into his side, rubbing absently at his chest.

“You wanna stay the night?” he asks the ceiling.

“I don’t think I could get out of this bed if my life depended on it,” she mumbles sleepily.  He turns his head to drop a kiss to her still-moist forehead and she hums, eyes falling shut.

She has no idea how long they stay like that but at some point he drags himself out of bed.  She shifts and wiggles until her head is on a pillow and lets herself drift.  Eventually, the light goes off and he climbs back into the bed behind her, arm comfortably around her middle, and tosses a blanket over the both of them.

“Can you make breakfast as good as dinner?” she yawns.

“Yep,” he pops in her ear.

She might answer, she’s not sure.  All she knows is she thinks, as she’s falling asleep, how good this feels.

**Author's Note:**

> Can you tell I was really hungry at the food part of the fic? I was starving.
> 
> I have a [Tumblr](http://johnisntevendead.tumblr.com) if y'all wanna come talk to me about how much I love these nerds.


End file.
